Echoes in the Dark

By morning, Seoul had awakened restless.

Headlines blared across every news outlet: “Third Victim Found in Abandoned Hospital.” Photos of police cars circling the decrepit building splashed across social media, alongside shaky videos of officers shielding the crime scene from curious onlookers.

Detective Han Jiwon sat at her desk, her coffee long gone cold. On her computer screen, articles scrolled endlessly, all quoting the same line:

“The dead remember.”

The words that had been smeared across Seojin’s chest. Words the public was never supposed to see.

Her jaw tightened. Someone had leaked it.

A knock on the doorframe pulled her from her thoughts. Captain Park Hyunwoo stood there, grim as ever. He held up a tablet with one of the articles displayed.

“Care to explain how our crime scene became public property overnight?”

Jiwon kept her voice steady. “I didn’t leak it.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Park replied, lowering his voice. “But someone wants this story out, and they want fear. Councilman Choi Taesung has already called. He wants a press conference by tonight.”

Of course he did. Taesung thrived on appearances. A serial killer in Seoul meant panic, and panic meant political opportunity.

“What do you want me to do?” Jiwon asked.

“Keep your head down,” Park said. “Do your job. Let me handle Taesung.” His gaze softened for just a second. “And Jiwon—don’t let this case eat you alive. Not again.”

The reminder stung. Not again. As though her brother’s death had been her failure alone. She bit back the response that threatened to spill and simply nodded.

By late afternoon, the precinct buzzed with reporters, cameras flashing every time an officer passed through the lobby. Jiwon slipped out the back exit, preferring the shadows over the circus.

She knew where she had to go.

A narrow stairwell led her to the basement of an old arcade, the hum of neon lights mixing with the faint sound of 8-bit music. At the far corner, tucked behind a row of disused pinball machines, was a door marked only with a crude spray-painted symbol: a fox with a jagged tail.

She knocked three times, paused, then once more.

The door opened, and Jung Daehyun leaned casually against the frame. His dyed silver hair caught the glow of the arcade, his lips curled into a smirk.

“Well, well. Detective Han. If it isn’t my favorite law-abiding citizen.”

Jiwon crossed her arms. “Cut the act, Daehyun. I need information.”

He ushered her inside, where the room glowed with the light of multiple monitors. Lines of code danced across screens, surveillance feeds flickered in boxes, and the low hum of processors filled the air.

“Word is,” Daehyun said, sliding into his chair, “your dead girl made quite a splash online. Hashtags trending, conspiracy forums buzzing. You want me to tell you who leaked the photos?”

“Start there.”

Daehyun typed quickly, the clack of keys sharp against the silence. “Journalist named Seo Harin got them first. But she wasn’t the source. She bought them. Trace leads to an anonymous uploader—encrypted, bouncing through six different proxies. Not your average hacktivist. This was someone who wanted the message to spread, but stayed invisible.”

Jiwon’s stomach tightened. “So the killer wants the public to know.”

“Looks like it.” Daehyun leaned back, eyes glinting. “And here’s the kicker: all three victims had their names flagged on private message boards months before they died. Lists of ‘undesirable witnesses.’ People tied to corruption scandals. Your latest victim, Hwang Seojin? She was once a student intern in Councilman Taesung’s office.”

The name hit like a hammer. Jiwon’s mind raced. Taesung, again. Always circling closer.

“You’re sure?” she pressed.

Daehyun grinned. “I don’t deal in maybes, Detective. Only truths hidden in data.”

Jiwon stood, her hands curling into fists. Seojin hadn’t just been a random victim. She had been a piece of something larger. A conspiracy that Taesung wanted buried deep.

Daehyun tilted his head, studying her. “You look like you’re chasing ghosts, Jiwon. Careful. Ghosts have a way of chasing back.”

That evening, Jiwon returned to her apartment, exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin. She dropped her coat on the sofa and poured herself a glass of water, staring at the rain streaking down her window.

The city outside looked different now—colder, more hostile. Every shadow seemed to hold eyes. Every echo of footsteps in the hall made her pulse quicken.

She opened her brother’s old case file again, thumbing through the photos, the reports, the unanswered questions.

Her phone buzzed. Another unknown number.

Heart pounding, she answered.

Static filled the line, then a whisper:

“The next one falls tomorrow.”

She froze. “Who is this?”

No answer. Just the faint sound of something in the background—a train horn.

The call ended.

Jiwon’s hand shook as she lowered the phone. A train. There were dozens of lines in Seoul. But only one station matched the timing of the last two victims’ disappearances.

Her eyes hardened. She grabbed her coat, determination burning through the fear.

If the killer wanted her to listen, she would.

But this time, she would be waiting.

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